Lenora Worth - I'll Be Home for Christmas and One Golden Christmas - I'll Be Home For Christmas / One Golden Christmas

Lydia snorted, causing her bright red hoop earrings to jingle. “Right. You’re a great faker, Nick, and we both know it. But this is a start. I’m glad to see you involved with something besides this oil company.”

“Yes,” Nick responded dryly from his perch on the massive teakwood desk. “Having two rambunctious children and their pretty mother in my house for the holidays is about the most exciting thing I can imagine. And here I was hoping you’d help me out of this mess.”

“They’re people, Nick, not a mess.” Lydia swung around, the fringe on her red suede jacket almost hitting her brother on the head. “I think you needed this. You couldn’t wait to tell me all about it when you got here this morning.”

“I told you all about it because what I need is your help, little sister. They need your help. This is a very temporary situation.”

Nick wished he’d just kept his mouth shut. This whole business was starting to get to him. Still amazed that he’d hired Myla to run his house, he had to wonder at his own sanity. He was reeling from the strange turn of events in his life. In the span of less than twelve hours, he’d committed himself to saving a homeless mother and her two waifs. Not involved? Hah! He was involved up to his eyeballs.

Resolving to get this situation cleared up—another of his father’s rules: no loose ends—Nick gave his sister a pleading look. “This dinner party is important, Lydia. I need to reassure some of our local stockholders. We’ve pulled through our slump, but I’ve still got people jumping ship. Are you going to help me?”

“I’m thinking,” Lydia said, settling herself down in the comfortable black leather swivel chair behind Nick’s desk. “If I help you with this woman and her children and your precious party, will you go to church with me on Christmas Eve?”

Nick gulped his coffee too fast and burned his tongue. “That’s blackmail,” he said, spurting out hot coffee in the process. “You know how I feel about that.”

Lydia’s knowing smile didn’t help his bad mood. “What happened to that almost-human I was just talking to?”

He scowled, rubbing his burned tongue against his top teeth. “I’m the same as ever. And I refuse to be pushed into a situation about which I feel uncomfortable. If you can’t agree to help me, please leave. I’ve got work to do.”

Lydia jumped up to come around the desk. “Oh, Nick, remember when we were little? Remember Mother taking us to the Christmas Eve service? You in your Christmas suit, me in my velvet dress? You cared then, Nick. You loved Christmas.”

“Well, I don’t love it now,” he said, his mood getting darker by the minute. “And I have work to do.”

Lydia stood staring at him. “And I thought helping someone out of a jam would make you less grumpy. When are you going to stop being mad at God, Nick?”

“Probably never,” he said, tired of this argument. Thinking back about last night, he remembered Myla’s prayer. She’d thanked God for simple things. Basic things. Things most people took for granted every day. Arrh, there he went again, daydreaming about a woman he’d just met last night. “Look, Lydia,” he said, “I won’t kick them out. You know that. But we do need to help them. And since this sort of thing is your department…”

Lydia nodded. “Of course I’ll help. But you made the right decision, Nick. Giving her a job was the best thing you could do.”

“I didn’t have much choice. She was available on the spot and I needed someone immediately. Now I hope I don’t live to regret it.”

“You won’t,” Lydia assured him as she headed toward the door, her long black wool skirt swishing around her matching boots. “You did need someone immediately, and I don’t think you’ll regret it at all.”

“Hey, you’re the bleeding heart, remember?” he replied. “While you’ve been out trying to save the world, I’ve been breaking my back to save this company.”

“And you’ve done a good job,” his sister acknowledged. “The latest stock report shows we’re up forty cents per share. We haven’t had to dip into that old pile of money Daddy left us, so why don’t you relax?”

Nick’s eyes grew dark. “I promised him—”

“No, you swore on his grave,” she reminded him. “Nick, when are you going to forgive and forget? Yes, he was harsh, but he was only human. It’s just that we didn’t see his human side until it was too late. I don’t want it to be too late for you, Nick. But you’re already headed down the same road he took—giving orders and doling out cash, never getting your hands dirty, never facing reality. It’s not too late for you yet, not if you realize that money isn’t everything.”

Nick eyed his little sister curiously, still amazed that she’d escaped their father’s ironhanded approach to life. Lydia was so like their mother, good, kindhearted, openly loving. And, Nick reminded himself bitterly, he was his father’s son. “Look, Lydia, doling out cash is what I do best. Money, I’ve got.”

“Uh-huh. And that’s about all you’ve got.”

Defending himself, he said, “Well, I haven’t heard any complaints. We’ve both got everything we need.”

She shook her head. “Except faith, Nick. That’s the one thing I’ve got that you lack.” With that, she shut the door and left.

She was wrong, of course. He didn’t need the added assurance of some higher power watching over him, which she insisted on believing. He had everything he needed. Didn’t he? Head of a successful company, owner of one of the finest homes in Shreveport, possessor of a social book that rivaled anybody’s in Louisiana. His list of attributes spoke volumes about his life.

But that’s about all you’ve got. Lydia’s words taunted him again. Oh, all this Christmas sentiment was affecting his better judgement. It was normal to feel at odds with so much Christmas hype being shoved down his throat.

Remembering other, happier Christmases, Nick stared out the window, mindless of the crawling traffic below. His father had taught him to keep his emotions at bay, and had set a firm example by never showing any sort of affection or compassion himself. Until Ruth died. Watching his proud, self-sufficient father crumble had only reinforced Nick’s own need to stay in control.

Now, he was trapped, so trapped, in a firmly encased persona that gave him a ruthless outlook on life. He’d get through Christmas the same way he had each year since his parents’ deaths, by celebrating with a detached kind of fascination, like the cynical kid who didn’t believe in Santa anymore.

Except this year, he reminded himself, he’d be doing it with a lovely widow and her two noisy kids. “Why do I have a bad feeling about this whole thing?” he asked himself.

“The whole thing is going to be a disaster,” Myla mumbled to herself as she once again checked preparations for the dinner party that loomed less than two hours away. Henrietta had gone over all the details with her. The food was ready; it only needed to be heated when the guests arrived. But Myla wasn’t so sure about herself.

She wore a white long-sleeved blouse and black trousers, courtesy of Lydia’s closet. Henrietta had insisted Lydia wouldn’t mind or even miss the functional outfit.

“All you have to do is keep the food coming,” the older woman had explained. “Nicky likes everything to run smoothly—these people are clients and stockholders, but this is a casual dinner. Just put it out on the buffet, real nice and hot, and keep your eyes open for seconds. The bar’s fully stocked, and Nicky’ll mix what drinks are needed.”

Since she didn’t condone drinking, Myla was glad she didn’t have to play bartender. The rest sounded simple enough. After all, she’d done this hundreds of times before. Smoothing the knot of hair coiled at the nape of her neck, she took a deep, calming breath. The children were tucked away in Henny’s small sitting room, armed with books to look over, coloring pads and crayons, and various other things Henny stockpiled for her grandchildren. They could watch a little television before they were to go on to bed. Surely, nothing could go wrong.